TuscanyChristine TsenAs the Aria begins to unfold tucked quietly within creases of cotton and timeI relive how motorbikes sliced through gauzed sleep bisecting my dreams.I remember nuancing along singing endless verses of opera on my homage to blurry artcrystal-lined through tears of awe

And my continuous molten gelato cones innuendos of hazelnut or pistachiodripping through stolen time achieving a disarray of melted ache for what I truly longedwhich was Youin each of Florence’s glorious art-soaked squares –and it was I who ran dancing through Boboli Gardens and strode along the Arno yearning for the Ring –I gaze backwards to being perched on knees in the Duomo divine angels singing an unabashed “Chi il bel Sogno di
Doretta”as I held so tightly to my prayersondering if I could ascend into the music to the holy cries above outlined in petticoats of gold.And before the high-laced pain in each of life’s new forward-march steps without you hold dear my lush young lovewaiting with corsage, expectant eyes
in Tuscan dreamssuspended within the staves of Puccini.

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